Red Chrysanthemum: A novel of Occupied Japan

RED CHRYSANTHEMUM

A Novel of Occupied Japan

By

Henry F. Mazel

Spruence Foundation Press

Red Chrysanthemum by Henry F. Mazel

Copyright © 2013 Henry Mazel

Spruence Foundation Press

New York

ISBN: 978-0-615-84228-8

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

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Other Works by Henry Mazel

Murderously Incorrect (Crime and Again) 2000

The Principal of Rivington Street (Amazon) 2005

Life and Other Games of Chance (Play — 2006)

The Plot Against Marlene Dietrich (River Edge) 2009

Little Leaves That Never Appeared in The New Yorker (Amazon) 2012

To Jack and Rieko Marquardt

And the men of the 720th MP Battalion

In the Back of the Book

Acknowledgments

Glossary of People and Terms

Selected Bibliography

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PHOTOGRAPHS

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Acknowledgements

Glossary of People and Terms

Bibliography

Preface

In August of 1945, the Divine Wind that had protected Japan from its enemies was still. These islands were the only major nation never invaded by a foreign army. For centuries its citizens were calmed and inspired by the idea that their invincibility flowed from the Chrysanthemum Throne of the Emperor, and neither nations nor nature could overcome His Divine intervention. Japanese learned from childhood that Kublai Khan himself had been repelled, and Great Russia had been defeated at sea. The deep days of summer in this year, in this month, changed all that.

This is a work of historical fiction. And with all such fiction, complete accuracy is difficult to achieve. The author acknowledges there may be some areas of imprecision in time, place, and character.

Struggle

Divine breeze sailing

Rain scorches our sacred earth

Waves and wind settle

— Haruki Mizushima

1

Shogun of Tokyo Bay

All great triumphs plead for humility. Because if you get it wrong the whole shebang could go bust and then where are you? Captain Starky and the others never quite caught on to that.

Rada, you’re holding that overhang so tight, I swear you’re goin’ to rip it right off there.

Didn’t notice, Cappy.

What did you say?

Nothing, sir. . . . Just, you know, the War being over and all, Captain Starky. Sir.

Always with that yap o’ yours. You know, over these last months I’ve taken a distinct dislike to you. Distinct.

Yes, sir, we both have.

You’re givin’ me more lip, now?

No, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Starky.

Starky shook his head in disgust. He generally had a look of disdain when I was around. Not a surprise, really.

The truth was, Cappy was a moron, and paranoid to boot. Of course, one more or less wasn’t going to make a difference. A quick look around the cargo bay where we were all squeezed in amongst the boxes of oranges and cases of M1s convinced me there was more than one moron aboard. Still, it probably wasn’t going to matter.

The plane was about to set down at Atsugi airfield in the Kanagawa Prefecture as the sun came up. This particular morning it seemed to struggle as it began its slow rise to the middle of the sky. I was already sweating, and my khakis were wet. From the east, we had flown over Yokohama, where little remained of the city. Emotions were running high. They covered the gamut, those emotions — from a nascent empathy to the chest-swelling hubris of victory. Include me among the empathy contingent. A few of the senior officers were so puffed up their ribbons were about to pop. I glanced over at Captain Starky to check his pop quotient. He glared back.

When the landing gear finally bounced across the pockmarked runway, my heart pounded out the rhythm of every skip, hop, and bump. A regular Buddy Rich without drumsticks, my ticker. Thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump. I didn’t figure I’d be so anxious; after all, what was I doing? Just landing in front of a pretty hefty slice of the Japanese Army and Air Force. A few days before, Atsugi was home to the most skilled kamikaze pilots ready to deep six themselves for the Emperor.

General MacArthur had landed at Atsugi the previous day on August 30th, which to my mind was audacious, or stupid, depending on how it turned out. The area wasn’t fully secured, and there was no telling if bitter-enders would put up resistance. They didn’t. And the General pulled off another show and swagger that cemented his image as the new Shogun in town. From those very early days, he became almost a deity to a great number of Japanese. The story goes, when MacArthur shifted headquarters from Yokohama to Tokyo in mid-September, Japanese lined the roads along the route to greet his convoy with silent, reverential bows, and some waved small, homemade American flags. They may have been ferocious in battle, but they were docile as hell in peace. Maybe that’s what happens when suddenly your whole belief system collapses and you need a quick replacement or you’ll go mad. The General was a suitable replacement.

After we landed, there were a few salutes and handshakes on what passed for the tarmac, and then we were whisked away by Jeep to our billet in downtown Tokyo. Our convoy made the thirty-mile trip in less than half an hour. You had to be shocked and staggered by the leveled landscape and ghostlike desolation. Our Jeeps were the only traffic on the road into the city, so we drove on the right-hand side of the road. The Japs drove on the left, like the Brits. We did pass a few disheveled Japanese along the way; they wore vacant expressions and threadbare clothing.

From our relative exuberance at the landing in Atsugi, we arrived at our quarters in downtown Tokyo, the Nippon Yusen Kiasha Building, in near silence.

Enlisted men at the NYK quarters were bunked on the fifth and sixth floors and officers on the fourth where there was a bit more room to stretch out. I just made the cut as a second lieutenant and a not-so-hotshot translator. The real scoop was, if it hadn’t been for the help of Michiko, a Nisei from Boston of all places — I have a little thing for Oriental women — I would have washed out of the Army’s Japanese Language School, which was in Ann Arbor at the University of Michigan and about as far from Tokyo as you can get. Alex Rada, college man. I liked the sound of it. I’d spent three hellish semesters studying psychology at USC before I dropped out in ’35. They don’t give out sheepskins for that. Anyway, in my line of work it’s useful not to let on you have something going for you upstairs. There are times you have to be fluent in two different worlds. But I did like having the framed diploma. What I didn’t like was Alexander. I didn’t like that. Not even Alex, but that’s preferable I suppose. Rada. That was fine. Just plain Rada.

After the long flight from Manila to Okinawa and then on to Atsugi, we had just one day to settle in, unpack, and rest. The following day, September 2nd, 1945 was the day. The day we witnessed America’s greatest triumph on the gleaming quarterdeck of the battleship Missouri, named for the home state of President Truman.

A sea of gray Allied warships obscured the waves and murky waters of Tokyo Bay, its harbor surf almost still, tumbling slowly over the shallows, fearful of touching the frayed earth.

Breaking side by side on the mainmast of the Missouri, both Admiral Nimitz’s blue flag and General MacArthur’s red flag unfurled in the fading breeze. A bloodshot sun climbed reluctantly toward the steel-blue sky, and the Divine Wind itself withered to harmless gusts.

A little past zero nine hundred, after the chaplain’s invocation and the playing of the Star-Spangled Banner, the top brass emerged. Admirals Nimitz and Halsey, and between them, a stolid General Douglas MacArthur. He wore no medals of any kind this day, and when he stepped to the microphone his sonorous voice was sure and deliberate. . . . I now invite the representatives of the Emperor of Japan and the Japanese government to sign the instruments of surrender at the places indicated.

The Japanese foreign minister, Shigemitsu, wounded in Shanghai, walking with a cane, was the first to sign. He looked confused, and very small.

Allied soldiers and sailors were hanging off anything that would hold them to catch a glimpse of Japanese diplomats in full morning dress and black silk top hats, and military men, too, in their full dress. Every turret top, every mast, was filled with newsmen, camera operators, and battle-weary fighting men. We all earned witness to this day, at this hour, at this moment. We had slogged across the Pacific, fought on islands with names like Tarawa, Kwajalein, Saipan, Tinian, and to the very doorstep of Japan itself, Okinawa. Men from Dubuque and Memphis and San Diego and New York and every other city and small town across America laid bare their blood. And those who survived, this was their day, our day, as much as it was the admirals and the generals. My own feelings were overwhelming and complex: Euphoria. Anxiety. Hope. Revenge. Elation. Even terror. The sense of floating; a chill down the spine. And a remembrance of the gore and flame on Saipan, where only God’s grace spared me from Hell’s Pocket.

Whatever the emotion, to a man, we all understood this was an historical moment, to be prized and remembered as the high point in our lives. I’ve never had those feelings before or since.

After the signing of the surrender documents, a dark, low-slung cloud appeared — not nature’s handiwork, but fleet after fleet of Allied aircraft soaring overhead, darkening sunny skies.

MacArthur pronounced his final words: Let us pray that peace be now restored to the world and that God will preserve it always. . . . These proceedings are now at a close. The warplanes above flew toward the horizon and disappeared. I watched a brigadier general break down in tears. And he wasn’t alone. America had triumphed and changed the world. . . . And then there was silence.

2

Changing Sides

My translation skills, such as they were, landed me the spot at NYK where we would be translating, among other things, documents and letters to General MacArthur that had begun to pour in almost immediately. I was astonished by the content of these letters, coming as they did from the people of a defeated and depleted nation — almost all of them praising the General, praising the Occupation, inviting the General to local events, giving the General suggestions on running the country, or informing him where ostensible war criminals could be found. Many were simply addressed to General MacArthur, without any other postal identification, some written in intricate calligraphy on parchment paper and others simply penciled handwriting on scraps of brown paper.

By and large, I slid by. The more seasoned translators handed me the easy stuff, like translating the figures of the size and location of Japanese troops overseas, mostly in China and Southeast Asia. These were easy to translate because they were almost entirely figures and weren’t the intricate calligraphy that some of the letters to the General contained. The work wasn’t particularly exacting or exciting. I had had enough excitement for a lifetime anyway so I was content, more or less, with the translation. Much of my time, though, was spent musing, reading, and staring out the window on a broken city.

That damn name shook me to attention. Starky, Zwecki almost shouted.

What?

Captain Starky wants to see you. He said now.

Really. Now what do you think he wants, Georgie?

Alex, I just translate the hard stuff. How do I know?

That was a dig, right? Fine, okay. Do me a favor though; it’s Rada, just Rada. You know, one name, like Hildegarde.

Hildegarde. Right. She can get away with the one name thing. The dame sings like Grable looks.

I’ve been told I do a passable rendition of ‘Till the End of Time.’

Right. We’re all waiting for that. Every morning when us doc jockeys wake up, we don’t think about translating manuscripts. No. First thing we think about is when is Alex Rada goin’ to grace us with a tune. Georgie Zwecki’s head bobbed side to side as he said it.

You finished? I asked.

Pretty much.

Fine. But you didn’t hear a word I said, did you? Not a word. Sergeant Georgie Zwecki — a man who goes through life with blinders on. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to get through the War, though. He’s another one I didn’t like. They do pile up. In my defense, I disliked Zwecki the least. I didn’t particularly like the son-of-a-bitch, but I got along with the son-of-a-bitch.

He had that on-the-double look, Alex.

All right. I’m going; I’m going. And it’s still Rada. Okay? I put away my dog-eared copy of Kafka’s The Castle, which I usually hid among the scintillating pages of Gorgeous Gams magazine — well, I didn’t want to ruin my reputation, now did I? Then I did a slow-walk across the bullpen area where translators sat at gray metal desks piled high with papers. Captain Starky was better fixed — not much, but he had a cubicle with frosted glass sides, without a door, that reached almost to the ceiling. The office itself was small and cluttered by stacks of papers and manuscripts. I knocked on the glass, yes sirred, and was greeted by a Cheshire-cat smile. Not quite a smirk, but a smile that said, I know something you don’t. Not my favorite kind of smile.

Sit down, Rada.

Okay, now I knew I was in some kind of trouble. Starky wasn’t all that gracious unless he wanted something or was ready to pounce like that cat.

You’ve been assigned to Dai Ichi.

What?

My mind was spinning faster than a Jeep’s tires stuck in Manila mud. I wasn’t sure this was a promotion — particularly the way Captain Starky was oozing self-satisfaction. Still, Dai Ichi was the office of SCAP, the nerve center where the General issued his edicts.

You’ve been assigned to the military police.

Huh? I’ve only been translating for six weeks. Okay, I know I’m not the fastest or best translator . . . the military police?

That’s right, the 23rd Military Police Criminal Unit, Starky said, expanding his smile. Looks like you’re a detective again, try not to fuck it up this time.

Some sort of joke. The joke, apparently, on me. Uh, may I inquire why, sir?

Are you an imbecile or what, Lieutenant?

Imbecile? Really? Where I come from my Jew pals would call that chutzpah, the imbecile remark. Still, I maintained an even strain. No, not really, sir. I do pretend, though. Makes life easier, don’t you think?

I wouldn’t know, Lieutenant. Cappy bent down, searching around in his lower desk drawer without looking up. Hershey’s maybe, or a chaw. "You were a cop, weren’t you?"

Me? No, that is, not really. Not very long. Some personal security work, though.

Uh huh. Says so in the file.

Look, Captain, truth is . . . I was a . . . that is, sir, they said I was a bagman for a fat judge who’d go into the tank for some cash, okay? Didn’t last long as a cop. A good one, anyway. But I never was a bagman for that judge. I found myself staring at the floor feeling the depression coming on. The black dog, Churchill called it. And then, of course, there was the girl.

Well, I don’t care, and I don’t give a shit, and I don’t give the orders. But if I did, this one would rank right up there with officers having hooch served to them at their desks by some of the jungle monkeys around here.

Swell, that’s swell, Captain.

Yeah. You report to Dai Ichi at thirteen hundred. You’ve been seconded. Permanently, I hope. Coffee pot and some cups on that desk of yours starting tomorrow. Have a nice day, Lieutenant.

Yeah, well you too, you asshole. Seconded, with emphasis on the second syllable. SeCONded. Jesus, speak English. Well I suppose it was English, but I wasn’t exactly Lawrence of Arabia seconded to the British Arab Bureau. The good part was the 23rd was a small unit, and supposedly they weren’t big on uniforms or ranks. If you were investigating a major, say, you could reach into your haversack and pluck out a few oak leafs and make yourself a lieutenant colonel. That idea I liked. Definitely.

I reported to Dai Ichi. One of the guards looked up my name and instructed me to report to the American Embassy instead. I didn’t question him, just chalked it up to the usual snafu. But the American Embassy? Beside the Ambassador and a few staff, General MacArthur himself lived at the Embassy with his wife and son, Arthur. Arthur MacArthur. One hell of a way to go through life. Then again, Alexander Radachenko wasn’t much better.

When I arrived, Japanese, still wearing soiled uniforms, stripped of insignias, were busy planting fully-grown trees and bushes and mature zinnia, in what once must have been the formal garden. The building’s exterior hosted thriving red and green ivy that had begun a slow climb toward the midday sun, as if nature had taken scant notice of the human destruction rained down over the past year. The Embassy itself was an imposing structure built before the War to impress the Japanese. All white-walled and Colonial in its look, it suffered less bomb damage than many of the other buildings in Tokyo. The outer walls between the courtyard and the main building were painted an austere white, and every few feet in front of the wall a neatly trimmed evergreen stood sentinel. Two small guard posts at the center break of the wall discouraged unwanted visitors.

Inside, the grand foyer had been completely carpeted, the great blue and yellow seal of the Department of State woven into its center. And like a cathedral, you felt compelled to remove your hat and whisper. The officious aide who greeted me had no such compunction. He directed me, rather loudly, to sit down at one of the ornate couches, set in a niche that held a delicately painted Japanese screen behind it.

During the time I cooled my heels I noticed, or thought I did, a shadowy figure pass quickly across the far end of the room. A pipe and cap, tall and somewhat lanky, this figure, this shape — I took to be MacArthur himself. Along with his family, he had recently